Chapter 13
“Ye should come tae the ceilidh,” Mairead said, her face flushed with excitement. “’Twould be most fun.”
At Darra’s questioning look, Mairead’s smile widened. “We come together tae celebrate summer’s end, and tae give thanks for our bountiful harvest,” she explained. “Every year we host a gathering in the plains where we race horses, dance, sing, and feast.” She lifted her basket which was laden with breads and cakes. “’Tis our last chance tae enjoy the weather before the cruel winter covers us with its rude, icy blasts. Ye should come with us.”
“I think I would be more comfortable if I stay within the castle grounds,” Darra said, allowing a cautious smile to flit across her lips. The last thing she wanted was to dampen the other woman’s spirits. Ever since Eanruing started to recover from his fever, his children were friendlier toward her, although she perceived that they were likely offering a fragile truce. Still, it was Mairead who made the greatest effort toward Darra.
Mairead hooked her arm around hers and led her to the window overlooking the meadow.
“See? The weather is braw,” she arched a delicate brow at her. “Ye cannae stay here and be cooped up in this damp castle while the others are breathing in the fresh scent of mountain thyme and blooming heather. ‘Tis a sure way tae spoil your day.”
Darra chewed at the bottom of her lip. It did sound much more appealing to spend time enjoying the sunny outdoors.
Then as if she sensed the tiny resistance within Darra, Mairead smiled and pressed on. “Ye have been working hard tae help my da. Ye need a rest. What guid are ye tae him if ye are tired and cannae help him further? Besides, he is asleep now, and a servant will attend him if ‘tis necessary.”
“All right, you have convinced me.” She sighed, and smiled back. “I shall go — but only for a little while. I shall return, and will relieve the servant so she can join in the revelry as well.”
Mairead clapped her hands. “Ye will nae regret it!”
***
Darra took in the breathtaking sight before her. It was the first time that she had taken a close study of the landscape since she arrived in the highlands. The beauty was evident from afar, but standing in full view of the misty mountains, she felt humbled. The land was covered in lush, colorful vegetation, and the smell of the blooming heather filled her senses. She could very well believe that the fairies danced among the flower blossoms once the sun set behind the mountains.
Mairead led her to the outskirts of the gathering. “We’ll leave our horses here with the rest,” she said, gesturing to the cordoned area where a number of horses stood.
As Darra waited for Mairead to finish securing the horses, she looked awkwardly toward the crush of people. When she discovered that no one watched her, she allowed herself to relax and enjoy the sights. Children and animals alike ran about in the open field, their laughter and shouts ringing with joy and excitement. The men gathered in groups to share their drinks and conversed with great animation, while the women were busy preparing food at various cooking stations.
Mairead returned a minute later, and grabbed Darra’s hand. “Let’s go,” she said, and pulled her into the crowd.
Darra had only taken two steps when her heart lurched at seeing Rory’s strapping figure. Almost as if he sensed her presence, he twisted his head and caught her gaze. Speaking to the man beside him, he excused himself and made his way over to her. He moved with forceful grace, each stride a show of dominance and vigor. It was obvious that he was in his own element.
“Milady,” he said, taking a gallant bow. Then turning to his sister, he nodded, “Mairead.”
“Och, ‘tis guid that ye came over, Rory.” Mairead said, her voice harried and distracted. “Will ye take Darra, and show her around? I will need tae help the lassies with the food preparation.”
Before Rory could respond, his sister was off.
“There is a lot tae see. Let me show ye,” he said, taking her hand and placing it at the crook of his arm.
“What is she doing here?” a man said loudly as they passed by a group of men in their cups. He stood up and with hands at his thick waists, he scowled at her.
As if sensing violent entertainment, a number of revelers stopped what they were doing, and drifted over to them. Darra blinked rapidly, regretting that she had agreed to come to the harvest festival. She pulled the arisaid tighter around her shoulders even though the sun warmed her back. She should have listened to her instincts, and stayed within the castle walls. The thing she feared the most was unfolding in front of her.
“Are ye nae English, lass?” another man asked.
Her response froze in her brain as she sensed the rancor in his tone. Perhaps it was the way that she carried herself, or maybe there was an air around her which they detested. In either case, it was clear that they despised everything about her.
“It disnae matter where Lady Darra is born, Duff,” Rory said, coming to her rescue.
“We cannae trust a sassenach in our midst,” Duff said stubbornly. “What if she reports us tae our enemies?”
A murmur went through the crowd, their voices echoing with disapproval. She felt their curious scrutiny, as if they were trying to ascertain the appearance of a traitor. Her hand on Rory’s arm tightened, and she wished that she could disappear into the ground.
“Duff, she willnae report ye for your cattle thievery, if that ‘tis what ye are worried about,” Rory said, his tone light.
“’Tis nae cattle thievery that he’s worried about, Rory,” another voice called out from the crowd. “’Tis the sheep, and what he does tae them that he disnae want reported.”
Duff snorted, and let out a barking laugh. “Aiya, Baldie, I ken ye are jealous of my sheep.”
Everyone burst out laughing.
“All right,” Rory said, chuckling, “Ye have had your fun, now go back tae your games.” The amiable crowd broke away, and the music started up again.
“I’m sorry that ye had tae witness that,” Rory said. “Truly, a ceilidh is full of merriment.”
“I am certain that ‘tis merry,” she said, giving him a wane smile.
“Ah, I see that ye remain unconvinced.” He placed his large hand on her cold one. The abrupt contact sent an electric tingle through her, and she looked to see if he felt it as well, but his attention was caught by a set of dancers. “Let’s watch the dancing.”
She allowed herself to be dragged to the circle of people gathered together, clapping, shouting, and laughing. All the while the sounds of the bagpipes mixed in with the gleeful energy.
A couple stood across from each other, one arm each raised in an arch. When the bagpipes started in on a new melody, they began to hop gracefully from one foot to another. Darra watched as a woman approached, hooked Rory by the arm, and pulled him into the festivities. He looked at her, shrugging almost in apology before joining the reel.
The bystanders began to howl and stomp their feet to the musical beats. Meanwhile the dancers leaped with skill and agility until finally, the pipes released one loud squeal, ending the song. A grin spread across Rory’s handsome face. He was making his way back to her when his youngest brother let out a shout.
“Rory, do the sword dance,” Ewan said, his voice rising above the revelry. The crowd latched onto his enthusiasm and began to yell “Rory, Rory!” The tumult became deafening.
A young, pretty woman broke free from the whistling and hollering crowd, and came over to them. The lass glanced curiously at her before turning her adoring smile on to Rory. A strange pang twisted in Darra’s chest. Likely when she returned home, Rory would take this woman as a wife, and forget about her.
The comely woman grabbed his hand and began to lead him away. But he dug his heels into the ground and glanced back at Darra.
“Will ye be all right?” he asked.
“Of course,” she lied. “You should go. Everyone is waiting for you to dance.”
He sent her a smile that went straigh
t to her heart. She had fallen in love with him, she realized. But because of who she was, she could never have him. She blinked quickly, trying to get a hold of herself. Rory’s father was close to being cured of his illness, and she would soon be released from her debt. For now, she would enjoy the celebrations, and when she went back to England, she would have something to reminisce about.
With that decision, she set aside her depressing thoughts, and allowed the festival’s joyous energies to lift her spirits.
Rory moved to the front of the throng, and stood while the people applauded wildly.
Across from her, the young woman who had pulled Rory into the crowd earlier, watched him with her hand at her breast, her lovely face shining with reverence.
A man brought over two swords and crossed them on the ground.
Rory bunched his fists and placed them on his lean hips. With his back straight and his broad shoulders squared, he stretched his corded neck, tilting his chin proudly in the air. His vision focused on the distant mountains. He paused in this position for a breathless moment, showcasing his fine, muscular form. When the first poignant peal of bagpipes began, he bent at his hips and took a deep bow.
The wailing pipes echoed in the open space, mingling with the rapid, steady clapping of the onlookers. The thin strain of music started off slowly at first and then like fire, it caught on, and the tune became louder, faster. Raising his muscular arms, he arched them over his head, while holding them firm and still. At the same time, his nimble feet flashed, as he jumped, circled and leaped over, and around the sword in a powerful display of agility and male strength. There was an air of masculine poise and wildness about him, an air that was reminiscent of a raging storm gathering strength and power over the open sea.
The clan members tapped their feet and banged their hands in time to the constant rhythm which vibrated into the atmosphere. A couple of women near her sighed at the sight of such masculine magnificence, while some others around her shouted, egging Rory onward.
Somehow the skirl of the bagpipes crossed the barriers of her heart, stirring long forgotten emotions that were locked there.
“What dance is this?” she asked Ewan, who stood beside her. He was bobbing his head enthusiastically in time to the steps. She had never seen or heard of dancing with swords, and this wondrous display intrigued her.
The boy glanced over at her, his youthful countenance shining with excitement and awe. He was so caught up in observing the dance that he failed to remember his hostility toward her.
“’Tis a battle dance,” he said loudly so he could be overheard above the noise. “Long ago the Scottish Prince Malcolm defeated Macbeth. ‘Twas said that after his conquest, he crossed his sword with that of the slain Macbeth, and danced around them in triumph.”
It was then that she realized that Rory had transformed into the Scottish Prince. His supple movements conjured images of a great ruler who had at long last conquered his mortal enemy. Malcolm’s feelings of elation and triumph were captured by the quick, forceful, and precise movements of Rory’s feet. Every intricate step exuded power and strength. Not once did his deft feet touch the dangerous weapons on the ground.
Every once in a while a loud, bold battle cry burst from his lips and his feet increased in speed. The hem of his great kilt flared in the air, exposing flashes of brawny thighs. Meanwhile his pointed feet landed on the ground with lethal precision, crisscrossing the double swords. He was magnificent. He was raw male energy and fluid strength. Every move he made was a show of predatory skill and tight control. Meanwhile the crowd, ever clapping to the music’s tempo, incited Rory onward, joining him in his victory.
The frenzied skirl of bagpipe music resonated in sky, and her heart raced in tandem to the excitement and jubilation that he exuded.
The pipes came to a crashing halt. And the dance was over.
Rory bent at his waist in a graceful bow while the crowd cheered.
He looked over at her, holding her attention for a split second before giving a good natured laugh, and accepting the congratulations of those around him.
The swords were taken away, and the energetic shrill of bagpipe music filled the air anew. The pretty lass ran to Rory, pulling at his arm to join her in another spirited reel. But he smiled and said something to the maiden. And in a surprising move, he made his way back to Darra. The woman pouted, her gaze fixed on Rory’s retreating back. She then turned an icy glare at her.
Darra let out an unsteady breath. At every turn, she seemed to make enemies. The exuberance she experienced during Rory’s dance abruptly vanished, and she was once again reminded that she was an outsider and not welcomed here.
The dancing was back in full swing, where clusters of his clansmen and their ladies jumped and twirled to the high, animated strains of the pipes.
“Would ye care tae dance with me, lass?” Rory asked, offering his hand.
A pretty blush stained Darra’s smooth skin. “Nay, I do not know how to dance like you do,” she said almost regretfully. “Besides, I will need to go back to the castle. Your father is due to take his tincture soon.”
He opened his mouth to persuade her to stay, but the expression on her pretty face was guarded. No amount of coaxing would sway her.
“Fine,” he said. “I will escort ye back tae the castle.”
She appeared as if she was going to decline his offer when he put up his hand. “Nay, dinnae refuse me,” he said. “’Tis the least I can do after all that ye have done for Eanruing.” On impulse, he reached over and ran the back of his finger along her silky cheek. “I have nae told ye that I appreciate your help with my da. Thank ye.”
“You are welcome,” she said, “I have long been a healer, and am glad when I can help those who suffer.”
Her soft blue eyes stared up at him, and he felt something shift between them. The noise and chatter that surrounded them ceased to exist. It was almost as if he was a lad once again, clamoring for his first kiss with a bewitching lass. Her pink lips parted slightly and he was sorely tempted to dip his head and taste again from her honeyed lips. He wanted to lay her down amongst the heather, and have her groaning his name. The image caused that part of him to stir. Rory shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He needed to leave the ceilidh before he had a full cockstand and he embarrassed himself.
“I’ll take ye tae your horse,” he said, clearing his throat. His large hand engulfed her cold one, and she allowed him to lead her away. As they left the gathering and approached the area where the horses were cordoned off, the noise behind them faded.
Rory discerned that his clan members disliked her, yet he felt a strange urge to protect her from their hostilities. For such a delicate lass, she impacted him in ways that he couldn’t understand. And as much as he tried to push her away from him, he gravitated back to her. She demonstrated that not all English folk were terrible. Some of them could be kind and caring — like Darra. The disturbing thing was that he no longer minded that she was an English woman. Still, she was intent on going back to her homeland, and he promised to release her once she fixed Eanruing. But why didn’t he want her to leave?
Chapter 14
The grounds of Tancraig Castle were quiet since most of the inhabitants were still at the ceilidh.
They maneuvered the horses into the stable, and Rory helped Darra dismount. He deliberately slid her body down along his compact frame until she stood facing him.
“I missed ye,” he said, reaching out to touch her soft skin. Suddenly the recollections of the night they shared hit him like a gale force. And despite himself, his body reacted to the tantalizing memories. He longed to rebury himself in her sheath and stay there.
Her eyes widened with confusion. “I — I do not understand. You were with me all this time…”
Mairead had lent her an arisaid, which she had pulled over her shoulders to cover the fitted shift and kirtle underneath. By all accounts, she looked like she belonged in Scotland. And by god, he could so easily get lost
in her pretty blue eyes. All at once, Rory was overcome with an urge to kiss her. He grabbed her lightly by the wrist, his surprising movement taking her off guard. Then pushing her to the stable wall, he pinned both arms above her head.
She didn’t resist him, but instead regarded him with a mixture of excitement, wariness and curiosity.
If she was frightened by him, he would have released her immediately. However she was staring at his mouth now, her breath coming out in spurts. He could feel his shaft thickening under his kilt, aching to probe her velvet softness.
He pushed his hips forward, allowing her to feel his hardness.
“I want ye, lass,” he said, his voice gruff.
Her pupils darkened as if she too remembered that night that they made love. But then she looked over his shoulder and licked her lips nervously. “The men —”
“Willnae be back for a time,” he finished for her, and bent to softly nip at the bottom of her luscious lip. He dragged his mouth until they covered hers, taking in her sweetness. She stiffened at his initial touch, but subsequently her body softened under the tender assault.
His hands lifted to the soft plaid on her shoulders and slid it off, exposing the bare skin above her bodice.
“Such a bonny sight,” he breathed.
His hands skimmed across her flushed skin, down her upper arms, and sliding over to the swell of her fitted bodice. Through the fabric he cradled her breasts with his palms, first testing the weight of them, and then gently swirling his thumbs over the hardening nubs. She arched her back and let out a low moan that was filled with desire, a desire that echoed his own.
“And ye smell sae guid,” he murmured, breathing in the fresh floral scent, and the smell of woman. She leaned her head on the wooden panel behind her as if she needed it for support. His blistering lips trailed to her neck, finding the sensitive spot there and nipping softly at it. She jerked forward, her breasts mashing against his chest. He shifted her slightly to dip his head, licking a scorching wet trail along her collarbone and down to the valley between her swollen breasts.
The Highland Chief Page 12
